The Boy with the Bread: The Hunger Games
by Youssii
Summary: The Hunger Games told through the eyes of Peeta Mellark instead of Katniss. If you weren't ready for the trilogy to end, here it is again through fresh eyes. Timeline vaguely correlates to what Katniss is doing, with the missing scenes with Peeta and the careers etc filled in as well. Rated T-M for violence, suggestive content, language.
1. Chapter 1

The crashing downstairs wakes us up, me and my brothers Josef and Elmer. I groan and curl in on myself. No other family gets up this early on reaping day. My mother is flying about the bakery beneath our house in a flurry of stress and anxiety, preparing dough from starters and stoking the ovens. She shouts for our presence downstairs.

A bit of me hates her, because of the reminder that it is in fact reaping day, when one of us or our friends faces being chosen to fight to the death in the arena. It's like this every year; we are woken at dawn by my mother, who out of worry and denial about the outcome of the reaping begins to bake furiously for the celebratory dinner we and our customers will have this evening, assuming that none of their children are chosen for the arena.

Dragging ourselves downstairs bare foot is fortunately easy this time of year, and I am thankful for the small mercy that the games are in summer. When we get downstairs, our mother begins to scream at Elmer, handing him some blackened crusts that he assumes he threw back into the oven. I ignore the fact that it was me and do not admit my guilt, instead turning to a free work surface and beginning preparations for a cake I know we will be too poor to eat ourselves, but the mayor will likely buy once his daughter, Madge, is cleared of the square.

I look at Elmer, feeling conflicted. Today might be the last time I ever see him; he too is still young enough to be eligable for the reaping. I know, though, that I won't help him if he's chosen, and he won't help me. We could volunteer. But we won't. Blood runs thicker than water, indeed, but neither of us is going to volunteer to have ours shed unnecessarily. I decide I will take the blame if he is picked.

Someone knocks on the door, and since the rest of us are busy, father goes to answer it, still in his night clothes. He greets the guest warmly and maybe pitiously, making me think it is either a child or a parent at the door. They don't come in, but he returns with a dead squirrel in hand and takes it upstairs to our kitchen. It could be Katniss, who hunts and is far more likely to be picked out at the reaping today. I feel a nagging sense of guilt, or maybe longing for her but I brush the thought from my mind.

"Breakfast," my father calls downstairs. I leave the dry ingrediants for the cake in their bowl and go up to join him.

Squirrel has never struck me as a breakfast food, but it's what he appears to have cooked. "Katniss catch that?" I ask, trying to hide my keeness for news of her.

"No, that boy Gale brought it in. Paid him twice its worth in bread."

Nothing else is said as my mother and brothers join us upstairs. My mother purses her lips at the squirrel, but says nothing. It is the day of the reaping and arguments must be postponed to this evening.

The meal is silent, and suddenly I think I would much rather be downstairs, where the stress of today's extra workload creates a distraction from the upcoming Games. I know my mother feels this too, as she barely touches the somewhat stale cake in front of her, much less the squirrel, before she rises and exclames that she "hasn't the time to eat until the evening."

After the cake is done and iced, my brothers and mother have baked a weeks worth of bread and my father cookies, scones and other sweets that take his fancy, our excuse to remain busy is no longer valid. I dress in an old suit of my fathers, as does Elmer, and sit about the house. I think of going to sleep, but anxiety gnaws at my stomach and I know I couldn't if I wanted to.

Instead we sit together in the living room, watching the crackling TV play the scens of the reapings that have already happened this morning. Before we leave for the square, we have just enough time to watch the first of the District 11 contestants being chosen. A little girl, called Rue. No one takes her place. My mother turns off the TV abruptly and announces it is time to leave.

By 2pm on the dot, I am standing next to Elmer and two of his friends enclosed in a kind of pen in the square, biting my lip and feeling an unpleasent mixture of hunger and nervousness. I want to be sick.

Looking up, I see the banners and the camera crews who will film as our district loses two of its children. They stand on all sides, caging us in. Part of me thinks this is no different to if their cameras were guns, about to open fire on the assembled children of those standing in the streets around the square. It's all the same fear.

I wonder if anyone in those streets is betting that it will be me, or Elmer who are chosen. The odds would be low, but the payback more favorable.

On the stage before us is the woman who's name I have inexplicably forgotten, who chooses the names in the reaping each year, with her currently pink wig and green suit marking her out as follower of Capitol fashion. Beside her are two empty chairs, from one of which the mayor has just risen to begin his speach. I ignore it completely; who could listen to a middle aged man's history lesson, in the knowledge that someone around them will soon be proclaimed as being as good as dead?

A man we all know as Haymitch clambers drunk onto the stage, yelling unintelligable words and attempting to hug the pink and green woman, who pushes him away and shuffles to the far side of her chair. She is saved by the mayor introducing her, "Effie Trinket" to the audience, and comes to take her place before the microphone. Her cheery attitude and silly Capitol accent are out of place with the solemn croud. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!" She exclaims as though the games are not a punishment but a celebration. To accompany her fake Capitol appearence is a fake smile. This to her is a carreer ladder, and District 12 is the bottom rung.

. "Ladies first!" She says gleefully, leaving a dramatic pause before she dips her hand into the bowl of girls' names. "Primrose Everdeen!"

There is a commotion as people part to let the little girl through. I recognise her as Katniss' sister before the words have translated into Katniss' own head and I hear her screeming for her sister. "Prim! Prim!"

I can't see them as they approach the front of the crowd, beneath the stage, but I can hear what Katniss is saying. The words shock the silent audience into gasps and even sobs. "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" Prim is screaming. The boy in front of me strides out of my view and a scuffle ensues. "Prim, let me go!" Katniss begs.

My stomach rolls in on itself. I like Katniss way too much for her to die now. It was my plan, or rather, I had fantasised about asking her on a date, and perhaps one day making her my wife when we were older. Nobody claps for Katniss at Effie's direction. Instead someone, I don't know who, presses their three middle fingers on their left hand to their lips and salutes her goodbye.

I drift out of concentration. The words that escape Effie's lips are a blur of overexcited words that tumble out at Katniss and into the butterflies inside my stomach, sounding no clearer than Haymitch's slurred speech as he proclaims Katniss to have "spunk", unlike the cameraman. He falls from the stage, and no more is heard from him.

This day could not get any worse.

"It's time to choose our boy tribute!" Effie proclaims, dipping her hand into the ball of names. "Peeta Mellark."


	2. Chapter 2

I stand there, frozen. Then I begin to shake. People are parting to allow me through, up to the stage. Elmer has receeded into his group of friends, and I don't look back to see his guilt stricken face, because I can't bear it. Slowly I make my way up to the stage and climb the steps. I stand accross from Katniss, and feel something inside me break as Effie asks for volunteers. Elmer says nothing. I knew he wouldn't, but his silence seals my fate. I'm going to die, at sixteen, at the hands of a crazed child, or a mutt, or starvation. I feel sick, but stare blankly out at the crowd.

As the Mayor reads out theTreaty of Treason, I catch Katniss staring at me, a strange distant look on her face. It's no wonder, I suppose. Despite being a volunteer, she hasn't forseen this either.

For a moment, I'm not thinking of my family or myself or the reaping at all. Katniss invades my memories, and I see her throughout my life, her life, glorious in my eyes, and invisible in her own. She's beautiful, is Katniss, dark hair, grey eyes with that steely look of a trained hunter, handed down from her father. I remember him singing, long ago. Many different songs he sang, to the meadow and to Katniss and to Prim. I heard him as he passed by my house, a voice that made animals pause to listen, birds stop to learn his tune. I remember her singing at school when we were younger, that same clear, beautiful voice. Her lips moving in perfect timing, her throat carrying the note from her larynx. I wonder if she sang to Prim as her father did to her. If she took her hunting, too.

The mayor finishes the Treaty and steps back, telling us to shake hands. Hers feel cold and sweaty in mine. It strikes me that this was a moment I'd wanted for so long, but had wanted to be so different. I try to memorise her hands, the long rough fingers, the crease of her palm, squeezing it to prolong the handshake. Then it's gone, and so is she, forever. My enemy. No, not my enemy. There's not a part of me that could kill her in that arena. I wonder if she could kill me. Her eyes are distant, and I think for a second that she could. That's when I realise that she has to, to get back to Prim, and to Gale. I will have to die, for her. And I know that I would, because I, a baker's boy will not be coming home. But as a hunter, she just might.

The anthem of Panem plays as several Peacekeepers step up onto the stage. When it is over, they escort me and Katniss inside.


	3. Chapter 3

We are taken inside, surrounded by Peacekeepers to separate rooms in the Justice Building. The room is rich, draped in fabrics I've never seen before and the carpet really is thick enough to sink my feet in, even in my ragged shoes, repeatedly re-soled over time.

There is a knock on the door, but it doesn't seem as though it is for my benefit because before I can reply, it swings open and my parents and brothers are ushered in. No one speaks.

Swallowing, my father places a paper bag down on the couch next to me. "I baked them this morning," he chokes.

I try to smile and take them. "Thank you," and then I burst into tears. There's a finality to it I can't accept. It's the last time I'll ever eat my father's food. The last time he will ever try to comfort me. The last time I'll ever see them, ever.

My mother sits down beside me and leans my head on the crook of her neck, but instead of feeling comforted, this rare moment of kindness from her only reinforces what is already on my mind. I am going to die, alone, away from my family. My father rubs my back and arm and my brothers look away. No one says anything, but they know it. I'm as good as dead now.

Elmer looks ashamed. In the light of Katniss' actions, he feels guilty for not volunteering to protect me. I give him the guiltiest look I can muster back, and attempt to admit guilt for my crimes. "I burnt the crusts..." the words are broken and high pitched, and I break down into a fresh wave of sobs. My mother does too and my father has tears in his eyes which he holds in, I think for my benefit.

"Mama..." I'm crying so hard I think I'll be sick. "Don't let me go, please... Don't let me go," my words are broken by my own retching. She says nothing.

For some reason, her lack of attempt to cling to me makes me feel a little better, or at least as though I have to pull myself together, so I stop my violent sobbing and begging and just sit there, pretending to be comforted by them. My brothers briefly hug me and leave the room wordlessly.

"You'll have to be strong without me," I say. "Josef will have to decorate now, he's the best."

There is nothing more to say, so we sit in silence waiting for the guards to come and take them away.

Suddenly, my mother looks away. "District 12 might finally have a winner," she says, and before I can even begin to hope she means me, she adds "She's a survivor that one."

My father looks at her, but I don't react, outwardly at least. I just feel cold and numb all over, staring blankly out into the center of the room.

A knock at the door warns us our time will soon be up, and my father puts his arm across my shoulder. "I love you son," he says simply.

As my mother is saying her goodbyes and assuring me I'll always be in her heart, a Peacekeeper opens the door and begins to pull them away.

"Goodbye!" I call. "Remember, I love you!"

The door closes. I curl up on the couch, feeling more alone than I have ever felt in my life, bag of cookies crumpled in my hand. No tears will come anymore, but still I sob until I'm retching. I force myself to breathe, and then sit up in time for the my escort of Peacekeepers to come through the door to take me to the train station.

I've never been in a car before. I sit in the one taking me from the Justice Building to the station, feeling queasy. I'm not sure if it's the emotions or the movement of the car, but I'm too exhausted to really care. My eyes hurt, my body feels sapped of its energy, and I sit here wandering if I can even go on with my life. If I kill myself on the train, will they select another person to go in my place? Am i condeming someone else to death? And even if I'm not, what's the point? I'll be dead in a week.

When we arrive, the train station is full of people with cameras, reporters, news crews. I look across at Katniss, and it doesn't look like she's even cried when she said goodbye to her family. She looks bored, lofty, above what is happening around her, going for the powerful immunity that apathy can sometimes give competitors in the Games. She looks across at me, and I turn my gaze back towards the train, away from her. Despite having never been on one of those, either, it's hard to be excited about the journey are we stand in the doors letting the cameras focus in on our faces. I wonder what they make of the tear tracks, but it doesn't matter. I know I'm not going to live, so I may as well feel how I want.

Inside the train, I'm hit by another bout of queasyness. I think it must be the movement, but maybe it's just that whenever I'm alone I feel unbearably weak. Effie directs me to my own private quarters on the train. I've never been anywhere like it, more luxurious even then the room in the Justice Building. I strip off the old suit that's overly large for me, and step up to a machine in the bathroom. Pressing a button sends a spread out jet of water into a sectioned off area in a corner of the room. I remember that these are called "showers", that they have them in posh places and in the capital, but I've never had one. I put a hand gingerly under, but it turns out the water is warm. I step in and fiddle with the controls, and am subsequently soaped and groomed automatically by the shower. It feels somewhat of a violation when a robotic arm slides out of a panel in the wall in an attempt to scrub me with a somewhat abrasive liquid, and I turn the extra settings off and simply allow the water to remove all of the odd concoctions the machine has covered me in. I step out of the shower and am blow- dried with a jet of air, which despite being warm leaves certain extremities uncomfortably cold.

Going back into the bedroom, I open the door of a huge closet spilling with clothes. I have more to choose from to wear today than I have ever owned in my entire life. It embarrasses me, to think that this level of wealth is banded about in the Capitol.

Nonetheless, I find that all the clothes are my size and succumb to a pair of silky black trousers and a palest orange shirt and make my way out towards the dining room for dinner.

Haymitch stumbles around the room, going from cabinet to table and attempting to decide on a particular kind of alcohol with which to pass out. He picks up a bottle of yellow-brown liquid and sniffs it. Deciding it's good enough, he pours himself a large tumbler of the liquid and then notices me. "I'm off for a nap," he slurs, "Night."

I sit alone at the table, stomach rumbling, as I wait for the others and the food. Eventually Effie comes in, followed by Katniss who both sit down around the table, which is laid for four.

"Where's Haymitch?" Asks Effie, enthusiastically, but not in a way that implies she'd rather he were here.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to go take a nap," I tell her.

She looks relieved. "Well, it's been an exhausting day."

The food comes, more than even I have ever seen in all my days at the bakery; soups, lamb chops, fruits I've never seen before, cheeses laced with blue that if I saw on cheese at home I'd turn my nose up at, chocolate cake. I stay clear of the mouldy cheese although Effie eats a small slice. Instead I focus on the meat and the rich, dark chocolate cake, moist and frosted with thick fudge icing, the kind I dreamt of making at home, gourging myself. Katniss does it too, won over by the exquisite meal and perhaps trying to gain a bit of weight for the arena.

Effie, in what seems to be her usual style cannot help but comment on the way we eat. "At least you two have decent manners; the pair last year at everything with their hands like a couple of savages," she says. "It completely upset my digestion."

Katniss glares at her and sets down her knife and fork. I know what makes her angry, that this woman from the Capitol can only think of manners, when she has lived a life surrounded by plenty when we have barely scraped a meal onto the table each day. She finishes her meal with her hands, slopping food about and alternating chocolate cake with great chunks of lamb. It should repel me, but I've never felt more attracted to her, her defiance, her power as she tears through muscle and fat with her teeth. I look away.

Feeling distinctly sick and cradling my overstuffed stomach like a woman late in pregnancy, I follow the others through to a separate room, and settle onto a couch to watch the recap of the reapings. The earlier ones, which I missed on oour own TV are the carreers, who as per usual are all volunteers, powerful, trained and eager to fight. I notice that the boy I'd seen from 10 actually has some sort of injury or birth defect to his foot. It seems unfair to choose him.

When the little girl from 11 shows up on the screen, Katniss looks extremely unhappy. I think she reminds her of her sister, or maybe it's that she's so very young. Because of the cumulative entries, twelve and thirteen year olds are rarely picked for the games, but it seems to heighten the tragedy when they are.

We rewatch our own reaping, and I see that the boy in front of me who walked forwards was the one who pulled Prim away from the stage. It seems all the more painful and desperate to watch, Katniss so desperate to save her. The salute is described as a quaint tradition, and Haymitch's fall from the stage gets much applomb from commentators. I on the other hand get little attention from them, except to say that I am the last to be chosen.

At reliving the day's events, Effie is full of fresh frustration with Haymitch. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation," she rants, "A lot about televised behaviour."

I laugh, because I know that Haymitch will learn no such thing. "He was drunk. He's drunk every year."

"Every day," Katniss adds, smirking.

"Yes! How odd you two find it amusing!" Effie is clearly angry now. "You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

Haymitch himself appears at the door, but he seems not to have heard the conversation. "I miss supper?" He looks bewildered, and promptly vomits onto the carpet, falling in it, sound asleep.

"So laugh away!" Effie snaps, stepping neatly over his unconscious form and out of the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Haymitch is slipping about on the floor in his pool of sick. I've eaten too much too recently to laugh as the sour smell of it hits me. The alcohol fumes don't help, either.

I look over at Katniss, who shares my obvious distaste, and we both get up somewhat reluctntly to help him.

"I tripped?" He asks as we hul him upright. "Smells bad." He runs his sticky hand over his face, smearing whisky and vomit down it. Katniss distaste is more a look of utter horror and disgust now, and Haymitch is right about one thing. It definitely smells bad.

"Let's get you back to your room," I say, putting his arm across my shoulder and attempting to make sure that my head stays clear of both his body or his dripping sleeve. "Clean you up a bit."

Katniss takes him by the shoulder, and we drag a stumbling Haymitch back through the train to his room. There's nowhere really to put him, so we dump him in the bathtub and turn the shower on, attempting to get the vomit off of his clothes before we're forced to touch them.

Katniss seems more uncomfortable with the prospect of undressing him than she did at having to drag his soiled body through the halls, so I decide it's best to let her go. "It's OK, I'll take it from here," I tell her. She offers to send someone in, but I decline. A moment alone with Haymitch could be of some benefit to me later.

I grimace as I strip him, trying not to touch areas of his clothes that are covered in sick. It's matted into his chest hair, and I lay him back to let the shower do the dirty work. His unkempt body is rather more unpleasent to look at than when he's dressed, and goes at least some way to explaining his lack of wife. For some reason, I'm left thinking about how each of my parents ended up together; my father is hardly well groomed, and you'd be hard pushed to find my mother attractive. Perhaps they were both once prettier, or perhaps... I decide I don't want to know and push the thought from my mind.

Haymitch appears to have fallen asleep in the bath. I drag him by the shoulders out of the tub and let him fall to the floor, where the air blasts him dry. He mumbles what I think might be "ouch," on contact with the tiles, but I ignore it. He probably won't remember the pain when he wakes up.

I haul him into bed without attempting to dress him. I somewhat regret not having Katniss send one of the Capitol workers in, but I have the suspicion that Haymitch is the way he is because of the Games, and it feels wrong to let anyone from the Capitol that destroyed him see him in this state. At least he owes me now.

"You just wanted to see me naked didn't you?" He half slurs, half laughs.

"Sober up Haymitch," I tell him as sternly as I can. "I expect your help in the morning."

When I arrive back in my own room, the loneliness hits me. I've never been anywhere where I didn't have to share a room with at least two others. Sometimes my father would climb into bed next to me, if my mother was in a sour mood. I wonder what I'd be doing, alone in my own personal room, if the circumstances were different. But they never will be different.

Instead, I wash my hands in case they have any of Haymitch's vomit on them, and strip myself naked. I choose myself a silky matching shirt and trousers that I assume must be for sleeping in, and lie down on the soft sheets, stroking the fine cotton and the material of the shirt. I still feel full, but I wonder if my family ate the food prepared for dinner tonight. I wonder if the mayor came to the bakery, to buy my cake, if the bakery was even open.

I think of them sitting around the little wooden table, saying nothing. I wonder if any of them cried. Suddenly it's anguish, and I'm racked with sobs as the loss of them hits me. I'll never see my mother again. I retch again, and feel the rich food in the back of my throat, but nothing comes up. After a while, I quiet down and watch my silent tears hitting the pillow, trying to get them to hit the damp spots from their predecessors each time.

My eyes sting, and I close them against the room and let the wind blowing in through the little open window of my carriage lull me to sleep.

* * *

I wake up in the morning feeling slightly queasy. It takes a moment to make sense of where I am, but as soon as I realise that I'm on the train, on my way to my death, I need to get out of the loneliness of the room.

Haymitch is sitting at the table for breakfast, pouring more of whisky into his coffee. He looks up when I enter the room, a little drunk but nothing on last night. "Morning," he says as a servant places a huge plate of fried food in front of the chair I sat in last night.

I take a sip from a cup that I think is milky coffee, but it turns out to be far less bitter, and sweet.

"Hot chocolate," Haymitch tells me. We rarely have chocolate at home, and it's never a drink like this. Once when I was younger I helped my father bake a cake with chocolate in it, but I never got to try any because it was a special order for the mayor when he got his position. Last night was my first ever taste of it.

"You'd best be ready to help us," I tell him, taking my seat.

He waves me off. "What d'you want me to help you do?"

I glare at him. "I don't know, how about win?"

"Think you can?" He asks. No.

"I think Katniss can," I tell him. He nods. So does he. "I want you to help her, when we're in the arena."

"Why?" He looks at me calculatingly. "It can't matter to you when you're dead."

"Maybe it matters to me that 12 needs a winner," I counter. He doesn't break his gaze.

"Don't bullshit me. You don't care about having a winner."You think there's honour in this?" He looks angry for a second, and then he smiles. "You don't even need the prize to feed your family, they're all bakers. No, you want her to win because you like her," The seriousness goes from his face. "Peeta has a cruush." He slurs the words slightly. Haymitch has an alcohol problem.

"I do not," I tell him shortly, although my face burns.

"Well you do now," he laughs, "If she's to stand any chance of getting sponsors, she needs to look attractive, and let's be honest, she's not gonna do that for herself."

As far as I can tell, Katniss is more than attractive, but apparently her haughty demeanor won't do her any favours before the sponsors. He's right.

"How do I do that?" I ask him.

He laughs gleefully, and I wonder if taking advice from him is a good idea in his current state of inebriation. It'll have to do, though, because this is as sober as he gets. "From now on, she's the most gorgeous girl you've ever seen."

I cover my embarrassment, and perhaps a little excitement by picking up a bread roll and taking an overly large mouthful. I can't be angry at him, though, because he's right. He is helping me, helping her.

At that moment, Effie enters the dining car, dressed in her gaudy Capitol clothes. She eyes Haymitch's coffee suspiciously as she pours her own, and he confirms her suspicions by pouring a clear spirit into his glass of juice, which is considerable redder than mine.

"For goodness sakes," she trills. "Can't you stay sober for one morning?"

"Keep your wig on, Effie," Haymitch replies, obviously provoking her. It works, because she storms out of the room, muttering various obscenities as she goes, brushing past Katniss, wearing yesterdays clothes, who makes her way in.

Haymitch waves her into a seat, telling her to sit down, and a servant enters with her breakfast, placing it next to Haymitch on his other side. She surveys her platter, looking overwhelmed by the sheer volume of food, no doubt thinking about all those who came to her mother for help as they die from malnutrition. She looks at her drink.

"They call it hot chocolate," I tell her, dipping a piece of bread in mine. "It's good."

She finished the cup before beginning her meal, wolfing down the food as though it is her last. Turning to Haymitch, she says curtly, "So, you're supposed to give us advice."

He pauses for a moment as if considering her question, and then replies "Here's some advice: Stay alive," And then he bursts into the kind of laughter which does not ingratiate himself with me. Does he think this is a joke? What about the fact that 23 children are about to die and he could be instrumental in making the one survivor one of us does he think is funny? No wonder District 12 hasn't had a winner since him.

"That's very funny," I tell him, but suddenly the irony of it isn't enough for me, and I smash the glass out of his hand, spraying the floor and walls with red juice. "Only not to us."

For a second I he seems stunned into silence, and I think he might actually be pulling himself together. Then he punches me on the jaw so hard my head snaps back and I fly out of my chair. There's a commotion between him and Katniss, and the thud of a knife on wood. Haymitch pauses and surveys the scene. "Well what's this?" He asks. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

I stand up. a knife has been driven into the wood of the table, between Haymitch and a bottle of spirits. I reach around it into a bowl of ice containing an oblong of fruit jelly, but Haymitch stops me. "No, let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

"That's against the rules," I tell him.

"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better. Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?" He asks Katniss.

She looks at him for a second and then wrenches the blade out of the table, takes aim and throws the knife, which slides effortlessly between two panels in the wall of the dining room and stays there. Despite having eaten her catches, I've never seen her hunt and there is something mesmerizing about the power she commands. She could kill either of us in a minute without coming within 10 metres.

Haymitch has us stand in the centre of the room, circling us as though he's considering a livestock purchase. Eventually, he proclaims us to be "Not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

Oh yes, I think. What beautiful miners we'll make. I wonder what coal mining themed outfits the stylists will choose for us this year. I just have to hope we don't have to ride into the Capitol naked and covered in soot.

"Alright, I'll make a deal with you." He says. "You don't interfere with my drinking and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do what I say."

"Fine," I tell him, resentfully. It's not fine, but it'll have to do.

Katniss asks about strategies for when we enter the arena, but Haymitch cuts her off. "One thing at a time. In a few minutes we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put into the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you, but whatever it is, don't resist."

She begins to object, but again he won't let her. "No buts. Don't resist." He picks up the spirits from their place next to the slot in the table from Katniss' knife and leaves the dining car. Then the train shoots into a tunnel through the mountains surrounding the Capitol, plunging us into darkness.

When finally the daylight of the Capitol leaves us blinking with spots before our eyes, we both rush to the window to see the metropolis of multi coloured buildings, cars, eccentric looking people who appear to have stepped out of a pre-panem technicolour film.

Katniss, in her usual display of indifference looks out, motionless. I know I have to be popular, for her, so I grin and wave out of the window, trying to catch individual pairs of eyes. She looks at me questioningly. "Who knows?" I say. "One of them may be rich."

The look on her face is unreadable, but I think it means bad news for me. I don't have time to think about it though, as the train pulls into the station in the Capitol.


	5. Chapter 5

I swallow a lump in my throat as a plump woman named Aelia who's eyeliner has been tattood on, and who's skin has been brushed with gold dust, has me remove my clothes. It's a long time since I've been nude before a woman, and forever since I've been nude before two women and a man whose soul purpose is to root out any floors in my body.

The other woman, Tullia, who is the exact opposite to Aelia, thin to the brink of starvation, her head shaved beneath a metalic teal powdered wig Effie would be proud of, decides I need my eyebrows shaped. I hope it isn't surgical because she appears to be preparing some sort of apparatus, and the man Fabian, who's lilac wig clashes with his yellow-gold lipstick holds my head firmly. I have to resist the reflex to struggle against him.

It turns out to be worse than some sort of surgical intervention, as Aelia comes over with a heated tub of wax, loading some onto a stick which she draws up to my face.

"Don't worry sweetie, it barely stings," she lies as she wipes a layer of painfully hot wax onto my face. This is the kind of stinging I expect from accidentally touching the side of the oven as I take the bread out, not from being primed for the Games' grand opening. "You see, that wasn't so bad was it?"

Then she rips it off my face, taking with it half my eyebrow and what feels like most of my skin.

"One more," She says, too excited for the action she is about to perform. I will myself to keep still, remembering Haymitch's orders not to resist. "You're such a brave boy, you."

Over the next hour, hair believed to be out of place is ripped from my body and the rest of it is clipped to a short, even length. I wonder why this matters when it's so blond you can barely see it, but apparently it does.

Next, my hair is washed in a little sink by Fabian, whilst Tullia cuts and files my nails into perfect shapes.

Fabian dries my hair in front of a mirror and holds it out at the sides, looking at it. "A little brightening treatment maybe, bring out the colour?" I am about to respond that it probably doesn't matter, but it turns out that he's not asking me, but Aelia. After 20 minutes with a think white cream in my hair, it is washed, cut into what is described as a more "innocent" shape, and dried. "Isn't that better?" He asks me. Tullia and Aelia both nod their heads, but I see no difference at all in the colour.

"Oh yes," I tell him in an attempt to be polite.

After my nails have been painted a clear grey to make me look more of a miner, my eyebrows highlighted and every blemish on my face concealed behind makeup until my skin looks like that of a painting of a child, the prep team vlears out so that I can meet Portia, wearing only plain briefs.

Portia stands in the door, her pale brown skin reflecting the glow of her blond curls, her lips black and her eyes sharpened. Her black dress is just a little less overdramatic than the usual Capitol affair, and compared to the rest of my prep team she is relatively normal.

"Hello Peeta," she says, coming towards me. "I am Portia, your stylist. And what an amazing outfit I have for you today!"

She seems less excited than the others, as though she knows what the games really mean, that this is a punishment and not an honour. Out of nowhere she flourishes a black one-piece outfit, complete with a cape.

"I was talking to Cinna, Katniss' stylist, and we both agreed District 12 has had enough coal minors and naked lumps of coal. That's why this year, 12 is going to be unforgettable. You're going to be on fire!" The twinkle in her eye tells me that she has a more literal interpretation of "on fire" than I feel comfortable with. "Don't worry. it's not real fire."

I look at the cape, but there's nothing about it to sugges fire. "How does it work?" I ask.

"You see this?" She scrapes a nail over the fabric of the cape and I nod. "Light it, and the cape goes up in fake flames. I'd show you, but I'm afraid they'll go out too early if I do that." What are fake flames? I want to ask.

Don't resist? If Haymitch had been set alight before his games I wonder if he'd still give this same advice.

"Come, let us eat," she tells me, and presses a button on the table in the center of the room. Within a minute, the center of the table opens up and a tray of food rises out of the center, enough fill both us and my prep team for the rest of the day. Portia looks at me, as if to gauge my reaction, but says nothing, and instead serves herself a flat of chicken and peas. "How old are you Peeta?"

"Sixteen," I tell her. It's hard to read her expression, but it's not the near envy of my prep team.

Portia helps me into the outfit; it looks far more simple than I'd expected, but it's nice. I hope it's flame proof.

"You're going to look amazing," she says, but it doesn't reach her eyes, maybe because we're going like lambs to the slaughter in the arena, or more disturbingly because there's an even greater chance I'll go up in flames and never even make it. I'm not sure which I'd prefer.

"Thanks," I say meekly, glancing at the clock to see if I have time to dunk the unitard part of the costume in water, but I don't and suddenly Portia is clipping on my cape sweeping us both from the room.

In front of the lift I see Katniss and her prep team. In her identical outfit, she looks striking, the cape lending itself dramatically to her appearence as a hunter. Next to her stands a very plain looking man, by Capitol standards, who I initially mistake for a servant, but who I am introduced to as her stylist, Cinna. He alone abstains from the excited chatter of the others, who seem to swell with anticipation. One of Katniss' support team has the strangest pale green skin I have ever seen, a plump woman who ecstatically bounds from one conversation to the other.

We go into the large lift and my stomach turns over at the strange feeling as it plummets down and down.

The lower floor of the remake center is a huge stables full of manicured, perfect horses hitched to gleaming carriages. I look about seeing what I assume to be District 7's candidates, dressed as trees, climbing into their carriage, pulled by four rich brown horses decked out in glittering green jewels and looking far more exquisite than their cargo.

The stylists usher us to our own carriage, drawn by four jet black horses whose harnesses are set with diamonds and a polished black stone I've not seen before.

Cinna and Portia dictate how we stand, arranging our clothing, moving individual locks of hair.

Katniss turns to me. "What do you think? About the fire?" She whispers.

"I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," I say, regretting my choice of words immediately.

"Deal," she turns her gaze back ahead towards Cinna. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."

I look around for him, but he's nowhere to be found. "Where is Haymitch anyway?" I ask. "Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?"

She catches my eye. "With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame."

It's the first time I've truely laughed since the night before reaping day.

The huge doors open, releasing the silvery tributes from District 1, whose white horses trot neatly out, unguided by a driver. As District 2's horses make their way for the exit, I see Cinna approaching carrying a flaming torch. The fire looks perfectly real to me. I hold my breath, preparing myself for pain.

"Here we go then," he says, and before we know it we're both on fire. The pain doesn't come. Cinna lets out his own breath that he's been holding. "It works," he says. His lack of confidence makes me feel all the more greatful that I'm still alive and unharmed. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you."

He drops down from the carriage but then turns back, shouting something.

"What's he saying?" asks Katniss, who I take in for the first time in her flammable glory. She's breathtakingly beautiful, surrounded by hot, angry, dazzling flames.

"I think he said for us to hold hands," I say. I reach out and slip my hand into hers. I can't tell if it's her hand or mine that's sweating, but perhaps it's both. Cinna gives us a thumbs up, and suddenly our carriage is thundering out the door behind the powerful horses who reflect our orangey glow.

For a moment outside the door there is silence, but when the crowd realises we're not in fact burning to deal before their eyes, a huge cheer starts up, and we're rocked by chants of "District Twelve!"

We draw attention back from the carriages in front, and I look up to see us both on the screen, trailing flames like shooting stars cutting through the twilight. Katniss' entire demeanor changes, and instead of the firm, emotionless girl from the reaping, she flashes the crowd with her smile, blowing kisses to the onlookers who scream and try to catch them, large groups of people whoop, each certain that her kiss was meant for them personally. Her beauty is captured by the huge screens which focus themselves disproportionately on us and the trail of fire that billows out behind us. I decide to break out my most crowd pleasing grin, gazing out at particular areas of the audience so that it seems like I'm holding a particular persons gaze. People in my line of sight break into chants of my name, begging for my attention.

Roses bounce off the carriage, and the already peturbed horses desynchronize for a second, the result being a particularly heavy burst of flame. I pity the animals; as far as they're concerned, they're attached to two burning people from whom they can't escape, and the audience is going wild, wilder than they must every go for horse pulling District 12.

Katniss squeezes my hand tightly as she rocks herself out a little to catch a rose, blowing kisses at the thrower. Then she loosens her grip.

"No, don't let go of me. Please. I might fall out of this thing." I say.

"OK," she says, and tightens her grip again, but not as hard as before.

Roses are still flying at us, but as we reach our destination the horses obediantly take us to our position outside of President Snow's mansion.

Snow is thin and lives up to his name. He comes to his balcony and gives the customary opening speech. As he talks the massive screens around the inner circle of buildings feature us heavily,briefly flitting about the other tributes and back again.

After the anthem, the horses parade around the circle, giving the screaming audience in the windows of the building one last look, before we're cantered back to the training center.

Back inside the prep teams are almost crying for joy, singing our praises as Portia and Cinna come to help us down, removing our burning capes. I feel tension about the room despite the prep teams' praises to our stylists, and notice some of the other tributes staring at us, hatred and jealousy burning as hot as the fire would have were it real.

Katniss pulls her hand awkwardly out of mine, which seems to have frozen around her and we both attempt to work the life back into our tingling fingers.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me," I say, "I was getting a little shaky there."

She brushes it off. "It didn't show. I'm sure no one noticed."

Why would they notice me? "I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you," I tell her. "You should wear flames more often, they suit you." I feel a little embarrassed at having given so much away, so I just smile at her, hoping to avoid her anger.

But instead she rises onto her tiptoes and kisses my cheak, right on the tender spot where Haymitch hit me.

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